


And if the water were still here, it would hold me close

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 15:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18994969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: He finds the words, always the words, going backwards and forwards, but always meeting in the middle, always meeting him face to face, like a secret, like a homecoming.A short, sad story about words that won't be left behind.





	And if the water were still here, it would hold me close

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by [this prompt](https://terrorkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/396.html?thread=139916#cmt139916). It includes some (rather obvious) references to the [Peglar papers](http://www.ric.edu/faculty/rpotter/aglooka/peglar-fulltext-rev_2000.pdf). The title comes from [I once wrote some poems](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbgljHignz8), by Peter Hammill.

He thinks that he can see a seagull, high up in the sky somewhere. The faint sun is nothing but a mockery of warmth, and it reminds John of their threadbare, old clothing. He laughs softly, and he tells Harry about it. If nothing else, they can still be poetic here, when it's so cold. When it's so hopeless.

Harry looks at him, and he tries to answer. He tries to be brave, but they are both tired, and completely beyond these deceptions. They don't want this ending, this pain. But they aren't going to pretend that it won't happen.

Harry's fever makes him talk of coffee and Cunamar and clear camps and comfort. And he calls out for the sea, and he calls out for music, and he calls out for John, who is there, always there. And John simply strokes his hair, softly, softly, almost like saying goodbye. 

But not quite. Not yet.

Now, Harry wants to sleep, and he closes his eyes. He finds John's hand, his fingers trace his wrist, the ink that's still there, always there. The pain makes him feel lost, but John is there, and he can find his way back. Once more, once more, he can be safe.

Another day, and Harry coughs and cries out, and the pain won't let him speak anymore, it has taken his words away from him. But his hands still tell him everything. They _tell_ him. John holds them close to his heart, lets him feel the rise and fall, the steady sound, the love that lives there. Always there. They still have this, and he will fight, tooth and nail, for every second they have left.

He reminds him of all the years apart, before they found each other. Then, all the years together, all the ships and the books and the dancing and the love. The sun like a ball of bright gold, the evenings and the candles and the words, the warm silences in between. And Harry doesn't open his eyes, but he smiles. He remembers.

He reads from Harry's book, sometimes out loud, and more often, as days go by, to himself. He traces the shapes, the symbols and the letters. He finds the words, always the words, going backwards and forwards, but always meeting in the middle, always meeting him face to face, like a secret, like a homecoming.

He sits with Harry, through the long nights. He holds him, carefully, but close. He doesn't know if he can reach him through the pain, but he can try. He can be his anchor, his comfort. His light, long after he can't see.

He can try. Until he can't anymore, and he has to let go. He kisses Harry's fingers one last time, he whispers words of comfort, he closes his eyes. And he lets him go.

And Harry's eyes remind him of the ocean when it's calm, and he deserves that same peace. He knows. It's hard and it hurts, but it hurts only _him_ now, because Harry is free of the pain, at last.

The sharp wind gets into the tent, but mostly it gets into his heart. And there should be tears. But he hasn't got the strength. He hasn't got the heart. He knows that there will be more years apart now, and he can't have that. No, he hasn't got the heart. Not anymore.

And he gathers Harry's papers, and he cradles them close. He cradles them carefully, because he is keeping the words safe, right _here_. He won't leave them behind. He thinks about them, the sun in Trinidad, the clear skies, the comfort and the sea, the sea that's always there. And he walks away, past the rocks and the white empty world. He walks away, into sleep, into the wind.


End file.
